


roll in the clouds and turn up the thunder

by spendon (orphan_account)



Series: stars are blind, and singers count [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: As in the band is formed later than usual, Later Band AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/spendon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick knows he's talented. He does, really, and it's tiring for people to keep on reminding him that, over and over and over again. He's talented, but he's nobody special. At least, that's what he thinks. Patrick believes that's what's fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	roll in the clouds and turn up the thunder

 Patrick knows he's talented. He does, really, and it's tiring for people to keep on reminding him that, over and over and over again. He's talented, but he's nobody special. At least, that's what he thinks. Patrick believes that's what's fair.

 Everyone in talented in their own special way, so he doesn't really understand why he gets all this credit for having it. It's not like he did anything amazing - he didn't end world hunger, or global warming, or bring peace to the world. He didn't cure cancer, or finish off the last of the racists and sexists in the world.

 All he did was sit down at the piano and play.

 

 It wasn't the first time he'd played, actually. Many times Patrick would listen for if he was home alone, then guide his fingers over the keys, feeling each ones touch, memorizing the placement of them all. He'd press down to release the sounds, assigning them to their matching keys and store the information in his head, in his little mind-book.

 And he started playing them together, pressing more than one key at a time, with both of his hands. He'd hold some down and play the others, begin creating melodies, tunes, music for himself to enjoy.

 Eventually those strings of notes would become songs, songs with lyrics that actually meant something, _Patrick's songs_ for _Patrick_ only. But when he played, when he played and his parents were home, they took his songs, god, _his_ songs and turned them into _everyone's_ songs.

 They told him he was incredible, a prodigy, an inspiration to kids like him. They told him he was a voice, a role-model, at the age of only nine years old. He even made it onto TV, on the local news. It was so much, too much, all at once. He just wanted to hide away in his room with his piano and go back to being alone, in his private little world of darkness and flavorful melodies.

 

 When he was thirteen, people kept ripping the dark from him. They kept replacing bits and pieces of it with bright, loud noises that hurt his head, that made it hard for him to see. The vibrations were so powerful, he couldn't feel the vibrations of his own feet in the ground, couldn't make out if someone was near.

 They took him out of homeschooling and placed him in public school, and it was terrifying. People talked too much, too loud, for poor little Patrick. It was that time, that age, when he wasn't special anymore, the age where nobody was special, or talented, and he hated it. He hated feeling pathetic and useless, he hated everyone else feeling like that, too, and making it their duty to make others feel the same.

 He always had to leave one class ten minutes early so he could get to his next class, and even then as he walked in the typically empty hallways, he was tripping over things, including his own feet.

 And of course, there was the awkwardness of being stereotypical. He hated using his cane, in the fear that someone would steal it, or comment on it, the very same reason he felt weird about wearing his sunglasses.

 "Do you really need that?" they'd ask, "why don't you wear your sunglasses all the time?" they'd say. Patrick always gave them the same exact response, "yes, I need my cane, and I don't wear them all the time for the same reason you don't."

 He tried not to get annoyed with all the questions. Sure, he couldn't see, but his eyes were just as sustainable to damage and sensitivity as the next guy - as in the guy with normal, actual working eyes.

 

 But back to talent. When Patrick turned 16, he was already practically a master at piano, with a couple of songs that he'd written all by himself. He had lyrics, and he sung them, but he didn't really think they were all that good.

 Pete Wentz, however, was another story.

 At a whopping eighteen years old, Pete Wentz was who Patrick sought out as his own hero, before he graduated. Little thirteen year old Patrick looked up to him, envisioned him the best he could with his voice, his talent. He could play guitar, bass, and he could write, all things that Patrick couldn’t do.

 Sure, he’d written a few things in the past, but Pete’s stuff was incredible. He only talked to him a few times, much less than he wanted to, the reason being he was so much younger than him. But he cherished those conversations.

 “You’re really great at singing, kid.”

 “I don’t even get how you can play piano like that, it’s _wicked insane_.”

 “You should be famous, Patrick.”

 He smiled to himself every time he thought about the elder boy’s kind words.

 

 Meeting Pete and finding Pete were two different stories. It wasn’t that he didn’t recognize him - he didn’t, because he hadn’t heard his voice in a while, and boy had it changed (just by a little, but enough for Patrick to need to process it for a couple of minutes had the other not spoken his name).

 Meeting him was being the shy kid at a concert finally getting to meet their idol, and having a small conversation with them that seemed to last a life time. Finding him, running into him again, was clearly different.

 It wasn’t school anymore. Patrick was nineteen. Pete was twenty four. And they hadn’t talked for six years, let alone _talk_ talk when they actually did. Back then it was just...talking. Blankness in each word, no meaning or true emotion to them. And now, it was a whole new level. It was communicating. Expressing. Patrick craved it.

 Besides the fact that he was seeing Pete as the same status as himself, rather than higher up, he still had an intense amount of respect for the man who’d guided him through his freshmen year unknowingly. It excited him to finally get to have a conversation, with someone who didn’t baby him, ask him if he needed help with anything.

 He found Pete hanging around in some random Starbucks, or, Pete found him. He was sitting at a table with his dumb drink, by himself, until he hears someone sit down across from him, the scrape of a chair against the floor, the vibrations it caused rattling underneath his own feet.

 “Patrick?” was all the voice asked, a hint of mischief in it’s voice. Patrick sat there in the glory of his silence, listening for more words, more sounds. “Unless you’ve gone deaf, too, you could at least recognize my voice.”

 “Pete?” he finally spoke up, tracing a finger across the wooden tabletop, feeling each and every indent. “Pete Wentz,” he said more confidently, nodding to himself.

 “Hey, buddy!” Pete laughed once Patrick got his grasp on who he was, smiling widely, “long time no see.”

 “I’ll say,” Patrick agreed, drumming his fingers against the tabletop, enjoying the sound of every little tap.

 "How've you been? Growing up like a little motherfucker, surprised to see that you got a little bit taller. And man, has your voice _deepened_."

 "The same," he shrugged, reaching for his drink, "but I've been looking into colleges to apply for. Make my mom proud, y'know? And I've also been trying to find a guitar tutor, but apparently they all seem to think that blind guys can't do shit."

 "You kidding me? You're like, the new fuckin' Stevie Wonder, dude," Pete commented, eyes crinkling at their corners as he grinned wickedly at the younger man in front of him, listening for Patrick's honest laughter.

 "I think that's a bit of an over exaggeration," Patrick mused, his sentence interrupted by the little fits of giggles he'd gotten. _Stevie Wonder_ , he thought, face splitting in a smile, _he's comparing me to friggin' Stevie Wonder_. "I'm not famous and I certainly don't play piano or anything for other people, er, as often."

 "You still playing piano?" The elder man tilted his head, voice showing little sparks of interest with each word.

 "Yeah! And I sing, but, it's nothing all that good, really."

 "Okay, now you're seriously the new Stevie Wonder. I'd love to hear ya sometime, dude," Pete snorted, grinning cheekily.

 "Really, it's not special or anything -"

 "Hush!" The other chided, tone mostly playful but still with a hint of scorn in it. Patrick only grumbled in response, huffing. "Here, gimme your phone, and I'll put my number in it, and if you're feeling up to doing anything you can just gimme a call, mkay?"

 "I don't think you know how to read Braille. Just read it out to me."

 "Aight, okay. It's..."

 

 Patrick did call Pete that night, but not because he wanted to sing for him, he just wanted to chat, really, catch up on things. Pete was pretty cool with that, and Patrick was happy, because he actually got to learn some pretty interesting things about his former childhood idol, and there were a lot.

 Like how his parents sent him to bootcamp in the ninth grade because of how he acted when he was younger, or how he plans on writing a book when he's older.

 "Y'know, 'Trick," Pete said confidently, "my buddies and I, we've been getting together a lot lately, and we've actually decided that we're gonna try and start a band, y'know, like, a real band, not just one that stays in a garage -"

 "That sounds so cool!" Patrick interrupted.

 "Wait, wait, wait - you didn't let me finish!" he complained, taking a deep breath, "and I was thinking, maybe you could be our singer, 'cause we need one real bad, and I know I haven't even heard you sing yet but please, 'Trick, just give it a shot? Pleeeeeeeeease?" The other asked with hope in his voice, praying that Patrick would actually say yes to his incredulously desperate offer.

 "I'll think about it," Patrick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Really, Pete, I'm not as good as you seem to think I am."

 "I believe in you," Pete whispered harshly, the soft click coming from the receiving end notifying Patrick that he'd hung up.

 

 Patrick’s fingers twitched nervously against his thighs as he followed Pete into his garage, listening to the sound of two other men chattering away, although their voices stopped as he arrived, only adding on to his anxiety.

 “Andy, Joe, this is Patrick,” Pete announced, adjusting the strap of his bass, casting sharp glances at the other two. “He’s gonna sing for us.”

 “Pete, wait - “ Patrick protested, holding his hands up in defense. “I - is it okay if I just, uh, sing? Like, you all just, leave the room. You can listen through the door or something if you want, I’m just… a little nervous, okay?”

 Joe glanced from Andy to Pete, who did the same, waiting for the older man’s final answer, seeing as at the moment he was the frontman of their band. Pete chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully before giving a small nod of his head, placing his hand firmly on Patrick’s shoulder.

 “Yeah, dude! Take your time.”

 With that, the three of them all went inside of the house through the door where the kitchen and garage connected to each other, leaving Patrick to himself inside of the garage. Before they all left, Pete hung around for a few more seconds to guide Patrick to the keyboard, if he wanted to play as he sung.

 He seated himself on the stool, carefully guiding his fingers over each key, like it was his first time playing, feeling each note, every notch between the keys. He knew the song he wanted to sing didn’t have piano in it, but it was still comforting just to feel the keys, the one thing he’d enjoyed in his childhood.

 Music played through his head as he started singing, lyrics simply pouring out from his head through his mouth.

_“Every day, it’s-a-gettin’ closer,_

_goin’ faster than a rollercoaster,_

_love like yours will surely come my way,_

_a-hey, a-hey-hey.”_

 After that point, he kept going until he’d finished the song, feeling a sudden surge of power course through his veins, feeling like he could do anything. That is, of course, until he heard the doorknob twist and the door swing open, several feet pounding, pounding, pounding against the floor from the stairs and towards him.

 “Patrick, holy shit,” said Pete, astonished.

 “That was - like, incredible,” a softer voice assured him.

 “Sing it again,” the more-nasally voice encored, though his tone was more playful than serious.

 “Wow,” Pete repeated, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus fuck, dude, you’re incredible. Like, forreal, in-fucking-credible.”

 Patrick ducked his head shyly, tracing a finger over the F sharp key. “I mean, I think it’s pretty average… “

 “Well it’s not,” the soft voiced one answered back sharply. Patrick felt his weight sink into the seat next to him, feeling the slightly muscular arm wrap around his shoulders. “You’re amazing, Patrick, really.”

 “Andy’s right,” the voice that wasn’t Pete, nor Andy, responded, so Patrick only assumed that the nasally one was Joe.

 “Yeah,” Pete nodded, swallowing dryly. “Guys, I think we just found our singer.”

 A chorus of agreements came from the other two men, quiet little hoots and cheers. Patrick could only bare them the smallest of small, genuine smiles, a happy feeling unfurling inside of him.

 

 In turn of taking the shot and performing a little “audition” for Pete’s band, both Pete and Joe offered to help him learn to play their respective instruments; bass and guitar. Andy had tried to join in with his drums, but Patrick had too much trouble hitting them in the right place, had too much trouble controlling the sticks. Andy promised he would try and help him out again some other time, but maybe he should focus on learning one or two things at a time instead of trying to balance three things on his shoulders.

 It wasn’t hard, learning the stringed instruments, but it was definitely harder than teaching himself piano. He could easily strum, but pressing his left hand’s fingers down on the right frets was frustrating him, as he couldn’t tell what fret he was holding down. The markings, the little bumps were shielded by the strings, preventing him from being able to touch them. He would just have to learn to memorize them anyhow.

 “Here,” Pete would say, putting his hand over Patrick’s and moving it up, or down, to the right spot on the neck of the bass, to which Patrick would grumble or hiss at himself for being so close to the correct place, but so far.

 And the same thing would happen with Joe and learning guitar. It was worse, because it had more strings, more to play and strum and hold down. Patrick would scowl and swear under his breath at himself, angry that he couldn’t get something down that everyone else in the world could do. Hell, he even knew about the guy who had no arms and played with his feet, and then he had to remind himself that everyone is just talented in their own way, and maybe guitar wasn’t his talent. But he still wished to learn how to play one.

 Occasionally, after practice, Andy would stick around with Patrick and walk him home, simply just for chats or talks about the music that they’re writing, just anything, and Patrick felt a little less tense afterwards once he’d have a small conversation with the other. Then they’d walk together in silence until Patrick was home. In all honesty, to Patrick, Andy kind of felt like home himself.

 He smiled brightly as he listened to Andy’s soft voice chattering away about how he planned on getting some tattoos.

 “I wish a tattoo was something I could feel,” Patrick chimed, his slender fingers lightly grasping Andy’s arm, “I think it’d be really fucking cool to know what your tattoos felt like. Maybe then I could kind of understand what they were.”

 “Yeah,” Andy agreed, helping Patrick sit down on the front steps of his house. “It would be cool, for me, too.”

 “I would set off on a trip to feel all of the tattoos. Never stop until every single tattoo has been touched by me.”

 “That’s a little concerning, Patrick,” Andy laughed softly, tapping his feet against the concrete steps lightly.

 “Maybe,” he shrugged, leaning into the drummer’s muscular shoulders, a small, golden grin displayed on his face. He sighed calmly, listening to the arrangement of everyday sounds that graced his ears, to Andy’s breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he leaned against him. Andy reached a hand up and combed his fingers through Patrick’s greasy hair gently, keeping quiet to hold up the calm mood.

 “Do you think we’ll make it?” Patrick suddenly questioned, grasping Andy’s hand and placing it back to the other’s side, sitting up straight. “Like, I know this is just for fun, this is just an… an experiment, but do you think we could ever have a chance at becoming something big? Something important?”

 “Patrick - “

 “I mean, it’s not like I expect us to, you guys are great and all, like, fuck, really good! But I’m not the best singer, at least, that’s what I think, and maybe performing somewhere sometime like once or twice would be cool.”

 “Patrick, hold up - “

 “And again, honestly, I don’t care if we don’t end up going somewhere amazing, becoming famous or anything - hell, I don’t even think I want to be famous, I could only imagine how stressful that would be, but you guys deserve this recognition, really, you do, and I just wish I could help - “

 “Patrick!” Andy interjected, brown eyes wide. “Take a couple of deep breaths, buddy. You’re apart of this band too, and your voice is incredible. If we’re gonna end up as something big, you’re gonna be dragged with us.”

 “Okay,” Patrick nodded slowly, inhaling deeply for a few seconds, holding it, then exhaling, repeating the process a couple of more times before he’d calmed down, mumbling a quiet thanks to his friend.

  Andy only smiled as Patrick leaned his head back into his chest, unknowingly listening to his racing heart beat.

 

**Author's Note:**

> patricks blind surprise


End file.
